A Brief History of Insanity
by PandaPrinzessin
Summary: In which insanity truly is hereditary... at least if the Aoyagi family is anything to go by. A study of Ritsuka, Misaki and Seimei and their respective madnesses.  Written for Mute Wordsmith.


**A/N: **This fic, my darling readers, is officially the longest thing I have ever written in one go on here and for this, you have the awesome Mute Wordsmith to thank for this because this is a gift fic for her as a thankyou for being both a fabulous beta reader and a pleasure to co-write with (this is the point where I'm going to shamelessly plug our joint fic, The Making of Soubi) and I know how much she loves the Aoyagis.

It's also kind of a gift for me too because of all the psych research I got to do for it and the copious use of italics I permitted myself to use during its writing.

And as I'm sure you're all aware, today, 21st December is the birthday of one Aoyagi Ritsuka :3 His 20th, according to the manga timeline, so happy 20th birthday, Ritsuka-kun! Ah, Panda, you and your wishing happy birthdays to fictional characters =P

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A Brief History of Insanity

_Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage._

_**-**The Meadow, Ray Bradbury_

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**.1.**

**par·a·noi·a **_[_par-_uh_-**noi**-_uh_]  
**-_noun: _**_a_ mental disorder characterized by systematized delusions and the projection of personal conflicts, which are ascribed to the supposed hostility of others.

She's keeping him safe, that's what Aoyagi Misaki tells herself. Ritsuka, her precious youngest child, the sun in miniature- he must not be allowed to come to any harm. That's what a mother does after all, isn't it?

And if she had to tie him to a kitchen chair to keep him from straying outside and getting _hurt _(because they're out there, she knows, faceless and threatening and given half a chance, they'd surely spirit Ritsuka away and she'd never hear of him again...) well, that was just the price that had to be paid for peace of mind and really it wasn't so much of a sacrifice, was it?

He'd been scared, she remembers as she picks up a shopping basket from by the entrance of the supermarket and heads down the fruit and vegetables aisle, but then strangely relaxed _("I'm not going to die. I won't go anywhere.") _which was a good thing, yes, because that meant that Ritsuka understood that outside the house was danger, the unknown waiting to swallow them up and spit out their bones.

It meant that Ritsuka knew it was all for his own good. She locates the tomatoes, picks one up and rolls it in her hand, pinching it to ascertain its firmness- even though you aren't technically supposed to touch the produce, it really is the only way to check whether it's any good. This is for Seimei's favourite dish, so they must be perfect.

Seimei's favourite dish because he's coming back and he's going to protect her and Ritsuka- he'll understand that you can't trust people, not ever because they're just waiting for you to turn your back so they can crack your skull with a tyre iron while you're blind to them.

When the whole world's against you, you have to do whatever you can to evade them. Yes, she'll get these tomatoes, Misaki decides, by far the reddest and just the right amount of softness. She'll buy them and simmer them up the way Seimei likes them and he'll come home and sit at the table with her and Ritsuka...

... and everything will be _all right_.

**.2.**

**dis·so·ci·a·tion **[dih-soh-see-**ey**-s_huh_n]  
**_-noun: _**the splitting off of a group of mental processes from the main body of consciousness.

Ritsuka thinks he'd go mad if he tried to remember or understand the things that happen in the evenings. His mother is ill, he knows this, were she mentally present surely she'd never even dream that wineglasses and showerheads, forks and flower vases could be capable of inflicting such pain- would be horrified at the suggestion that she would ever do such a thing.

It is a different world, in which both Ritsuka and Misaki are transformed creatures- a separate universe unto itself where galaxies explode in showers of glass, entire planets are drowned in scalding water and then there is space, terrible in its emptiness and this is where the fabric of time

_runs out_

_and he is in a garden though he doesn't know where there are birds singing somewhere but when he looks closer they are feathered clockwork toys that shrill with a angry voice resembling his mother_

_a branch tumbles from the blossoming plum tree (do seasons exist here is it spring?) and strikes the side of his head_ _so that's where the lump and the shallow cut that bleeds so much it's almost exaggerated came from and the bruises blooming across his back in shades of thunderstorm must be from where he falls because he isn't looking where he's going_

_stop please stop ritsuka does not know where his two years disappeared self is and curls up right where he stands on the gravel path tucks his head in the space between his knees and chest_

_and there is a butterfly ritsuka catches sight of it from the corner of his eye and suddenly it does not hurt quite so much there is a name he knows lodged somewhere in his ribcage something full of vowels soubisoubisoubi_

Even in a parallel universe some things don't change. The next day Ritsuka is sore and sort of blank around the edges and thinks he might be as surprised as Soubi is that, when the Fighter collects him from school, he gives Soubi a lung-compressingly tight hug as though thanking him for something neither of them can remember.

**.3.**

**sa·dism [sey-**diz**-**_uh_**m]  
-_noun: _**any enjoyment in being cruel  
**see also: **sadistic personality disorder, a psychological condition characterised by sadism, a fascination with violence, the exertion of control over another (often through harsh physical treatment) and frequent lying

They hadn't lost but it could not be honestly said they had won either. Any victory that was gained is outweighed by the long scratch that runs its course from Seimei's neck to his collarbone, bright and ragged-edged.

That isn't how things work between the Beloved pair. Seimei does not take the damage, not ever, that is Soubi's job- Soubi with his fibreglass bones, pale and bruisable as a peeled apple, who bleeds in such pretty shades of scarlet like a dying sun. It's only right, after all, that somebody so suited to breakage should be the one offered up as a sacrificial lamb.

_"What kind of Sacrifice are you, letting your Fighter take all the damage for you?" the Fighter of the Joyless pair had asked, disgust in her voice as she knelt over her fallen partner. _

_"That's easy. One that always wins." _

They go back to Soubi's apartment- the punishment Soubi's due isn't something fit for little Ritsuka's eyes. For all that children adore fictional bloodshed, Snow White's stepmother demanding her heart on a plate or Rapunzel's foolish prince with his eyes ripped to jelly by rose bushes, they are terrified by the real thing.

For all that Soubi is the art student (extortionate termly fees paid by one Minami Ritsu, as Seimei discovers and stores away for later use), in this moment, Seimei is the artist and Soubi no more than the blank canvas awaiting the etching of another masterpiece. And oh, such a painting, stark red lines, perfectly perpendicular to each other, that blur into palest sun-starved skin- today Soubi's back resembles an artwork by Kline, a contrast to the swirling Surrealist lacerations barely healing on his stomach and sides.

And it is beautiful. Soubi makes no sound, save for the occasional soft whimper that seems to come from somewhere so much deeper than the voicebox but it's enough for Seimei to know that his Fighter _wants_ to scream, to cry and beg for absolution and who knows, maybe one day Seimei will let him. But for now he prefers the barely audible sounds that tell him Soubi is repenting his sins.

And if you were to look into the room, all you would see would be the sharp corners of contrasts- the boy with the serene face of a Renaissance Madonna next to a man whose bleeding heart could be plainly seen in his eyes, unspeakable pain mixed with adoration, predator and prey.

Light against dark- _chiaroscuro_, the basic principle of painting. After all nobody said art was painless but all the same, just seeing the look of delight on Seimei's face as his Fighter bruises and bleeds is more than enough to make Soubi feel as though pain might really be a very small price to pay.

**.4.**

**my·so·pho·bi·a **[mahy**-**_suh_**-foh-**bee**-**_uh_]  
**-_noun_: **an abnormal fear of or distaste for uncleanliness or contamination

They are filthy down to the core, not just dirty and pathogen-ridden, but innately decaying. Seimei knows exactly what lies beneath the skin, bone and streaky muscle, blood filled with millions of lymphocytes that are supposed to keep you clean but do not. Somewhere inside them, something is rotting. Inside Seimei, he is certain, there is only a heart of blackest stone, polished to a shine that ensnares the eye of anyone who sees it.

It is a disturbing thought to say the least that every door handle and handrail has been touched by hundreds of these people, even food. The okonomiyaki vendor calls out her wares on the street as he walks home from school and Seimei represses a shudder at the black crescents of dirt he can see underneath her fingernails as she flips the pancakes.

Disturbing that these people will touch things that Ritsuka might touch, unaware that every brush of his fingertips across an unwiped kitchen counter or gum stuck down the side of a seat is corrupting him.

He turns his key in the door and it swings open with a nudge of his foot- walking into the kitchen where Ritsuka sits on one of the steel-stemmed kitchen stools, reading a biology textbook.

"Oh! I didn't think you'd be back so early, Seimei!" He should be used to Ritsuka's delight when he walks through the door but Seimei revels in the knowledge that Ritsuka is happy to see him, trusts him, will always be happy to see him. He'll make sure of that.

"Class finished early- the teacher was ill." Seimei spins out the lie effortlessly, it's almost relaxation not to have to have to invent anything more complicated. Not to have to explain why so and so was missing or magic up an alibi that wouldn't fall apart no matter how many people picked over it with their dirty hands _and oh, every single one of them was utterly defiled, he and Ritsuka are the only two in this world, in any world who are clean..._

Ritsuka tosses the book aside and hops off the stool to hug Seimei in the bony, lopsided way that only a child can and Seimei does not feel the necessity of washing his hands afterwards- though he makes sure that their mother scrubs hers thoroughly with handwash (not soap, because that is full of animal fats) before he allows her to begin preparing dinner.

**.5.**

**psy·cho·sis **[sahy**-koh-**sis]**  
-_noun_: **a mental disorder characterized by symptoms, such as delusions or hallucinations, that indicate impaired contact with reality

He is coming back. This is undeniable.

Misaki spends her days assembling the evidence- there are any number of tiny things; the way she looks occasionally into Seimei's room and finds there are objects missing, hears his tread on the stairs, even _sees _him sometimes in the very early hours of the morning when the city is asleep _and no, this has nothing to do with the fact she has not slept for weeks and does not take the pills that sit on her bedside table with the prescription still on the label... _

It is close on three in the morning; the hour one cannot believe is not still night. The darkest time there is- too late to be nighttime, too early yet for the dawn to leak its watery rays through her curtains.

She cannot recall the events of the night, at least not clearly; she had hit Ritsuka, she had not, she had not because that child _looked like_ Ritsuka but could not be. If she were to cut him open, she wonders, surely she would find the hydraulics, the circuitboard, the foreign chemicals that resembled blood and tears but were nothing but a reproduction. Proof that this boy is nothing but a replica.

_but no no she can't do this not ever this is her child she gave birth to him and oh she adores him unconditionally she wants to stop but finds she cannot once she's started stop please stop_

_cannot stop and shuts herself away in her room as he knocks on the door pleading with her to come out she cannot because then he would see what an awful mother she is_

"Mom?"

And Misaki is out of her chair, out of her stupor, sprinting for the front door because she knows that voice.

_seimeiseimeiseimei_

And, oh, he is there- towering over her as ever _(she used to joke about how he'd soon be growing through the roof if he carried on getting taller), _with the same dark dark eyes that mark out Misaki and her sons as being obviously related. She reaches out, clutching at air, clutching at nothing.

Seimei is gone as quickly as he appears, but he is coming back without a shadow of a doubt. She knows this because of all the things Aoyagi Misaki might be, she is most definitely not insane

_...is she?_

**.6.**

******am·ne·sia **[am******-nee-**zh_uh_]  
**-_noun_: **loss of memory sometimes including the memory of personal identity due to brain injury, shock, fatigue, repression, or illness

It never ceases to bewilder Ritsuka how ten years could have simply vanished overnight; there one day then erased without a trace the next, save for the photos of the boy who is his double but nothing like him. There are almost as many photographs of himself now, as though he might somehow be trying to outdo his former self, to carve out a stronger foothold to stop himself melting away like his predecessor.

The photos prove he is still here and, if the other Ritsuka should chance to return, that he was there- a living, breathing boy rather than a cloud of smoke. Evidence.

If he disappears again tomorrow, Ritsuka wants to leave something behind. There hadn't been many to start with- there were only so many photos of yourself you could take before you felt loneliness curling heavy as a snake beneath your ribs- but then there was Yuiko and Yayoi and the photographs steadily multiplied until there was Soubi and then it seemed the shutter would not stop clicking.

Ritsuka prints every one with the greatest of care, finds each one a place in his room, presses the duplicates onto whoever will accept them because if _they _remember him then he must exist. There's one in particular he can't seem to tear his eyes away from. It's sort of blurry because he'd had to set the camera on a timer to get both him and Soubi into the picture and it definitely wouldn't win any photography prizes

_but it is a memory preserved perfectly on paper, nothing like the stiff, cutesy portraits he usually comes up with when he tries to catch one_

_They are in the park and it's unseasonably cold for September, sycamore leaves already starting to fall at their feet in brilliant tawny shades of orange and cinnamon. Soubi's standing behind Ritsuka, arms wrapped round his shoulders, bending down a little so his chin just rests on the top of Ritsuka's head and Ritsuka's turning his head with an expression that's half annoyed but there's a smile on his face too. Mostly they just look like two people in a park. Happy. _

It's stupid, he knows, but whenever the gaping blank in Ritsuka's memory just starts to hurt so much that he can almost feel himself falling away, drifting apart like a moon that's broken its orbit and spills out lost into space, he takes this photo off the wall, forces himself to look at it.

After all, if he cannot trust his own memory not to stretch thin and tear in places, the testimony of his eyes will have to suffice.

_You are here. You are therefore you exist. And sometimes you are even happy._

**.7.**

**so·ci·o·path **[**soh-**see**-**_uh_**-**path]  
**-_noun_: **a person, as a psychopathic personality, whose behavior is antisocial and who lacks a sense of moral responsibility or social conscience e.g. the ability to feel remorse for their actions

"Tell me. Who was it that died that day? Who took your place so you could keep in living? Who was it that you killed?"

Seimei does not hate Minami Ritsu- that would imply that he feels some level of emotion towards the man, when the only thing he feels in his presence is distaste and a faint irritation that he would be presumptuous enough to question Seimei's actions, that he had to trouble himself erasing this man's dirty fingerprints from his Fighter.

No, he doesn't hate Ritsu-sensei, but Ritsu hates him and this is something that never fails to amuse Seimei. Amuses him that anyone could be so bothered about an object that was broken when it came to him and is so damaged now as to be beyond any usefulness.

"Should it have been Soubi?" he asks sweetly, relishing the look of cold fury that sweeps across Ritsu's face.

Really it would have been infinitely easier if he _had_ used Soubi- he cannot imagine him putting up any kind of resistance. All Seimei would have had to do was say the word and Soubi would have immolated himself like a burning saint with no protest. But there was the troublesome two centimetre height difference and probably a fair number of bone fractures that would have alerted any coroner to the fact that this was not in fact Aoyagi Seimei's corpse.

"When I left Soubi in your care you absolutely ruined him," Ritsu says in a voice icier than permafrost.

_oh I think you did that long before I did, sensei_

"Is this just a personal grudge?" Seimei inquires lazily as Ritsu mutters something about where he'd chosen to write the name- which just went to show that the good sensei had not the faintest inkling what he was talking about. Beloved was carved onto Soubi's throat for much the same purpose as a luggage tag _though admittedly the tears in the other boy's eyes and the way he'd bitten almost through his lower lip while it was happening had been quite delightful _

"Do you think that us two Sacrifices should fight? Despite you being old and weak?"

Ritsu moves with surprising speed for one so obtuse, hoisting Seimei clear off the ground by the collar of his coat.

_don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me _

Repressing his disgust that the other man's hands are all over his coat (this will have to be dry cleaned once he's left), Seimei locks eyes with Ritsu-sensei.

"I would never hand something I wanted over to some stranger like you did. You must be a very conniving individual to get angry over something you don't even care about..."

The mention of Soubi works like a firecracker; Ritsu drops Seimei abruptly as though something's just burnt him. And makes the mistake of removing his glasses to glare at the boy. There's something about that look that infuriates Seimei- like Ritsu-sensei, who has done things so disgusting that by rights he should be incarcerated for them, thinks he is better than Seimei. Superior.

Drenched in the almighty power of playing God, Seimei feels absolutely nothing as his knife flashes forth to slice Ritsu's eyes from his skull.

**.8.**

**trau·ma **[**trou-**m_uh_]  
**_-noun_: **an experience that produces psychological injury or pain.  
**see also: **post-traumatic stress disorder, a severe anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to any event that results in psychological trauma, a defining symptom of this disorder is re-experiencing the trauma through flashbacks or nightmares

It is a perfectly ordinary day. Ritsuka's walked past the petrol station maybe about twice a day for the past year without thinking anything of it and indeed why should he, it's not as though they're particularly rare or remarkable. He doesn't think anything of it.

An ordinary day, maybe a little cloudy and Soubi insists on walking him home "in case it rains" though Ritsuka knows perfectly well Soubi doesn't have an umbrella and wonders what he's going to do if it does start raining. Probably give Ritsuka his coat and then he'll catch another cold on top on the one he maintains he doesn't have at the moment _like anyone's forehead is that hot when they aren't running a fever _

They walk past the petrol pumps _and they must look a sight, the tall pale man with the bandages hand-in-hand with the skinny schoolkid whose bag is too big for him, _pass by a fancy looking foreign sports car, whose owner is leaning against its door, lighting up a cigarette as though he doesn't know you shouldn't do this at a petrol station because it's flammable and might

_catch fire _

_it's the first day of term and you aren't excited because you can't remember the last time you felt excited about anything that wasn't Seimei but he hadn't been home last night and you're worried because it's not like him at all and mom had been scared too but you don't want to think about that_

_you're the first into school and you head for your classroom it's the sixth door on the left as you walk into the building none of the other students are here yet_

_the stench hits you before you even walk into the room the worst thing you have ever smelt it smells of gasoline and charred flesh there is somebody sitting at your desk no not somebody at least not any more it doesn't take a genius to see they are the source of the smell to see they are dead_

_they drip gasoline they are black in places and dirty white in others where the skin and flesh have charred away to expose bare bone they are the most terrifying thing you have ever seen and you scream scream at the top of your lungs and even when teachers come running in when they call the police when the coroner tells you this horrific thing is Seimei your Seimei oh especially then you cannot stop screaming until your throat starts to bleed_

_and then you have no voice at all_

Ritsuka does not know where the picture comes from, why he is back in his classroom staring at his brother's corpse and he shakes his head to dislodge it, thrashing around until he feels muscle ripping and then Soubi is above him, hands on each side of Ritsuka's head to brace his neck, stop him hurting himself any more than he already has.

He goes limp- whatever it was he tore in his neck hurts so much he wants to throw up and he can't turn his head without pain flaring up.

"Look at me," Soubi says, "look right at me" and it's not as though he could look anywhere else really but he obeys, staring Soubi straight in the eyes until all he can see is blue and thinks if safety has a colour this is it.

**.number not found.**

**love **[luhv]  
**_-noun, verb_: **no definition applicable

It takes too many forms to tie it down to a few words in a dictionary. You could love someone to distraction, love them to pieces, even to death. It did for Romeo and Juliet, Anthony and Cleopatra, Cathy and Heathcliff and all the other hundreds of doomed lovers you will find whenever you open a book, listen to music, watch a film.

You could love someone to the point of obsession; they might not necessarily know that they were the only other person in a universe created solely for the two of you, that everyone else was nothing but animals, might be entirely unaware of the fact that deep down you were the same and that meant they were supposed to give up everything they were or had to you because really you were the same person split into different bodies and that was why you could love them above anything else.

You could be utterly bewitched by the soul you saw shining beneath somebody's skin, the purest and most beautiful thing you had ever seen but when you tried to beat it out or force your way inside, you broke it and you had to limp through the rest of your days knowing that you had broken what you'd loved and over time he learned to hate you for it just as fiercely as you thought he might once have loved you.

There was the love that you dreaded losing so much that you kept what you loved under lock and key and when it changed, when it fled out into the night, you snapped and turned on what you had left, hating it because it was either not what you thought it was or because it couldn't fill the place of that which had disappeared.

And there was the kind of love that can only exist between two who are mutually damaged. You told yourself they didn't love you because it made you feel strange, hurt you to think that you were not as exponentially loveless as you had believed yourself to be. You had sought them out under orders and had not intended to fall in love with them, had not intended to adore them this much. You held their hand, kissed them and wondered how it could be okay to feel like this when they belonged to someone else.

When you were together, neither of you felt broken any more.

_And thus, dearest readers, it can be safely said that out of all the diseases of mind and soul we humans are plagued with, love is perhaps the most profound and discreetly destructive madness of all._

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**A/N: **Ah, look how many pairings Panda managed to sneak in there :3 To clarify the last entry, we have... Seimei/Ritsuka, Ritsu/Soubi, Misaki and Ritsuka aaaand Ritsuka/Soubi~ Eheh ;) And to be entirely clear **the italics signify thought **so when I write a character going off into italics, those are their thoughts kind of bubbling up- oh, you dear crazy Aoyagis, can you not keep your thoughts to yourself?

Enough of my babbling, I do hope you enjoyed this and I will now proceed to embarrass myself by pleading with you to review if you liked it, hated it, or were just plain indifferent to it _b-but please be nice to me, 'kay? _


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